


with all my love

by cloudburst



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Love Letters, M/M, alec got drafted in 1914 so he writes letters, magnus is a field medic in the trenches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-15 07:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13026636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: i do not wish for him to do this—to take care of me in a way i have never had—as i cannot afford to become attached to a man who is as likely to die as i am. yet when he smiles as i shift in the dirt, mumbling to myself in the most incoherent fashion i'm sure, i feel that i've already begun. and there is nothing i can do to stop it.His hands burn, as he refuses to kill.





	1. letter 1: isabelle

**Author's Note:**

> cw: talk of death and sickness, typical stuff you'd associate with trench warfare

november, 1914. 

to: isabelle lightwood

from: alec lightwood

> __
> 
> dear izzy, 
> 
> __
> 
> i am not sure why i write to you—at least, not presently. i'm holed up in this godforsaken trench, wishing that i had better news, or better words to convey to you the way that i'm missing home—awfully, terribly, with every beat of my heart. i feel it's a waste to let you know of how i ache, how my heart aches when i think of you and max—when i think of the draft, and of my duty to a country i've never quite felt apart of. 
> 
> __
> 
> in a way, i suppose it's fitting—that i'm here beneath stars too dim for me to see, for you and max are my light and i am at present in the dark—in more ways than one. you could say i'm lucky, remarkable even, rotting away in a trench somewhere in belgium. we're told we are existing in—living in the first trench ever dug in this conflict, and i fear that i may die here serving some higher purpose that i do not believe in, nothing to accompany me but my bitter thoughts, their aftertaste no more pleasant. 
> 
> __
> 
> i've always wanted to see belgium, but not quite like this. 
> 
> __
> 
> despite my reservations, and despite my fear of the unknown that awaits me upon my possible death—my ascension or whatever you'd like to believe is fine, as i write more to please you now than i do for myself—i wanted to convey that i will always love you. 
> 
> __
> 
> come hell or high water, i will write, and i will fight to make it home safely. 
> 
> __
> 
> with all of my love, your brother,
> 
> __
> 
> alec
> 
> __

_  
_


	2. letter 2: isabelle

november, 1914. 

to: isabelle lightwood

from: alec lightwood

> __
> 
> dearest isabelle, 
> 
> __
> 
> i fear i have fallen ill, as no more than a few days have passed since my last letter. yet—if this is the end i feel that you deserve answers. you deserve to know of the way my unblinking eyes stare to the smoke laden sky, waiting till the moment it goes black. you deserve anything you want to know; you deserve the world i have not been able to give you and max—my greatest regret upon being forced to leave you behind, for that it what i've done, and that is how i sin. if i do not make it back, heaven or hell, i don't think i will be able to forgive myself. 
> 
> __
> 
> despite my lack of coherency in this letter, as well as my total disregard for any form of integrity, i feel you'll be pleased to know one of the other soldiers, i cannot remember his name to save my life—which currently would come in handy as i rot—has insisted upon taking care of me. he's lovely: dabs the sweat off my forehead, attempts to convince me that things will be alright as the shrapnel rains down mere yards from the hole in the ground that i've come to consider my temporary home. this consideration is more for my sanity than my comfort. 
> 
> __
> 
> i do not wish for him to do this—to take care of me in a way i have never had—as i cannot afford to become attached to a man who is as likely to die as i am. yet when he smiles as i shift in the dirt, mumbling to myself in the most incoherent fashion i'm sure, i feel that i've already begun. and there is nothing i can do to stop it. 
> 
> __
> 
> already, losing him would be hell—yet i fear i am already burning, and life in this trench was my punishment. 
> 
> __
> 
> sincerely, and with my whole heart,
> 
> __
> 
> alec
> 
> __
> 
> p.s. please tell max not to forget his schoolwork, for if i return and he has allowed himself to slip so far down the rabbit hole as to have no path of return, i will tickle him to death—and that is not a fate i would wish upon anyone.
> 
> __

_  
_


	3. letter 3: isabelle

december, 1914. 

to: isabelle lightwood

from: alec lightwood

> dear isabelle,
> 
> i hope everything at home is going quite well, for here, nothing is well. yet i think of you and max every day as i lie in the dirt. and you should know, as you inquired in your last letter to me, that i found out his name—the man who helped me—bane. magnus bane. 
> 
> i tell him of you, and of max, and all of the adventures we've had. he smiles, and tells me that they sound lovely—they sound nearly as lovely as returning home, or crawling our way into no man's land between trenches, and making our way to the point of no return—the infinite black that ends our stay in hell. yet, i am not that desperate at present, for no matter the odds, i will make it home. 
> 
> (magnus, as he's insisted i call him, is a field medic—so that may prolong my meager existence for a bit longer than expected. i find myself with a growing attachment that i cannot shake.)
> 
> with all of my heart, 
> 
> alec


	4. letter 4: isabelle

february, 1915. 

to: isabelle lightwood

from: alec lightwood

> dearest isabelle,
> 
> i apologize that it has been more than a month since my last letter was so desperately scrawled to you—much has happened that i choose not to dwell upon for more than the instant it takes me to compose this sentence, for now i rest beneath the dim sky of some godforsaken trench along the river somme, aching for reprieve. 
> 
> by the grace of some higher power, or perhaps just dumb lack as i lean toward the latter, magnus rests in the same trench as me, tending to the wounded—his battalion transferred at the very same time as i. 
> 
> my hands itch, isabelle. yet i cannot pull the trigger. i'm sure many think me a coward for my inability to bring a man to his eternal rest—yet i cannot shake the idea that this is not my decision to make. you cannot judge the character of another by the fire in their eyes, just as you cannot determine the worth of a life in the split second it takes to end. 
> 
> i have discussed this matter with magnus as he is allowed to rest; they keep him quite busy here in hell. he says it is natural to find regret in the crosshairs. yet, i think he cannot know—choosing to save life instead of end it, his fingers occasionally brushing the hair from my eyes when he thinks me asleep. this all in the time he believes no one is looking. 
> 
> perhaps he thinks me a fool. i think him wonderful. 
> 
> i just wished you to know i'm safe, and that i have someone looking out for me. i miss you and max dearly. 
> 
> with all my love,
> 
> alec


	5. letter 5: magnus

february, 1915.

to: magnus bane

from: alec lightwood

> magnus, 
> 
> i am not sure how to address you in this letter, for i am not sure who you are to me. it feels strange to pen words as you sleep a mere 3 feet away—the sound of crashing shrapnel reverberating around us. 
> 
> the strange blond—you know, the australian one, who insists he's my best friend—he is screaming next to me, yet in this moment i cannot tear my eyes away from you, the only thing i see. and, it may be coarse to admit, but i've never seen a thing more beautiful. 
> 
> never have i wished so fiercely to hide someone from the world's view—protect them with every fiber of my being. i think that perhaps it is because i know you'd the same for me—feel as though you'd rip the very stars from the sky to put them in my eyes. and again, i say perhaps, for this could all just be wishful thinking and i've imagined the clammy hands brushing my hair from my forehead when you believe there is no one to bear witness to your crime besides the dirt beneath our feet and your heart. 
> 
> and at times, i will admit, i wish i'd find the feeling of your lips chasing your cool hand. this is wishful thinking, i am aware. yet i want you to know of all the things i've felt for you—for i cannot shake the feeling that i will die here, never having known you, or what it was like to be loved by you. 
> 
> you, magnus bane, are confusing me. but i lose my breath, every time you glance at me when you think i'm not looking—despite the circumstance and nature of our acquaintance. my heart beats faster when you walk by, even amongst the carnage of a war started by men who could not care less about those like us. and you should know, my skin tingles when i stand close enough to feel your breath, though i suppose i could mistake that feeling for the hot wind upon my back. (i could not, for we are in trenches. and i am not mistaken.)
> 
> with my head and heart—or whatever of me you'll have,
> 
> alec


	6. letter 6: magnus

march, 1915.

from: alec lightwood

to: magnus bane

> dearest magnus,
> 
> i've decided on the platitude dearest to define you, for it is dull, but a single world cannot encompass all you've done for me, as you are the only magnus i know—but also, at this point the man i hold closest to my heart. 
> 
> i have also decided that these letters will never make their way to you until the war ends, or till your shaking hands find them—removing the crinkled pages from the jacket upon my lifeless body. this is the favor i asked of you last night—that you'd take my letters and send them to their rightful recipients upon my inability to do the same. of course the ones with your name scrawled upon them will not have a long journey home. and just know, magnus, that i felt poorly for upsetting you—causing the distraught look upon your face at the thought i may die. but there is death all around us, and i want you to one day know how lovely you are to me. 
> 
> i have tried to find it in your whispered words at 3 am, as you took leave from your station the same time as i—coarse fingers tracing the outside line of my hand. i regret clenching my fist, the retraction of your action that i'd wished to return in kind, but found myself unable to move beneath the weight of my beating heart. 
> 
> there is nothing ugly about you—about the way you moved to fully hold my hand in the darkness later, that very same night as you recognized the implications of my regret, pressing our arms to the wall of dirt so no one could see my knuckles turn white as i squeezed your hand so tight. 
> 
> there is nothing ugly about the way you fight in your own way against this godforsaken war, a war that neither of us wished to take part in—saving the lives of others instead of ending them—preserving my sanity and soul. 
> 
> you looked to me the one night in february that the stars had been visible, and the shrapnel momentarily stopped for the briefest amount of time—that night we could hear the rushing of the river somme. arm around my shoulder, common camaraderie to others but more to me, you spoke in the quiet of night: people are more than just toys for their, the government's, amusement—sending us to die for a cause we don't believe. promise me, you'd whispered. promise me you won't make the figurative leap to no man's land—that you won't die and leave me all alone in these trenches. 
> 
> in the end, your lips had made brief contact with my temple as we hid in the dark of an obliterated trench shack, ransacked and destroyed by german shrapnel—and i'd wished to hold you in the peace of the relatively noiseless night. ultimately, i did not promise you—for i do not engage in promises i know i may not be able to stand by in the future.
> 
> and i am loathe to tell you this, but i've started feeling and i can't stop. am i falling in love? it is unclear—but you are quite magical, and i wish to hold you close. 
> 
> for now and for always, 
> 
> alec


	7. letter 7: isabelle

march, 1915.

to: isabelle lightwood

from: alec lightwood

> izzy,
> 
> i think i've fallen in love. simple and complicated is that really, all at once.
> 
> my will to come home has not left me—though, at times as i find myself down, defeated in the dirt, that it intensifies as i think of home, and the possibilities that accompany the word. we are still in france, thirty-five days that we've been resting in an incision in the land—this land near the rushing river somme, that was once beautiful—that once felt the kindness of children's feet, pulling daisies from the ground, and laughter. the land is now crying for help, just as many here do in the night; it is inescapable. 
> 
> thirty-five days that we've been fighting not only others, but amongst ourselves—to stay alive, and to remain. some give up, and we must bear witness to their suffering all the same. 
> 
> there is a strange australian—blond, voice like bells—who claims i am his best friend. i do not object. i will not mention him by name, for if he is to pass i feel that having put pen to paper to acknowledge even the slightest of friendships, it may destroy me. 
> 
> i write to dispel your worry, and relieve mine—if only momentarily. i now sit in a torn apart trench shack, riddled by shrapnel. we are not supposed to come here, yet i do to hide my crimes. magnus has asked who i write to, presently, his hand resting upon my knee. so i will now tell him more about you and max—and hope that tomorrow when i awake, i may hear the river somme and a proclamation of cease fire. 
> 
> till we see each other next, 
> 
> alec


	8. letter 8: magnus

may, 1915. 

from: alec lightwood

to: magnus bane

> dearest magnus, 
> 
> it has been over a month since my last letter and i find myself in regret of that every day—for writing to you, and celebrating any form of future in my mind, is sometimes all that allows me to remain with even a sliver of sanity. 
> 
> we are still in france—you blessedly at my side. and it is in a different trench now that i write—in a different breach of nature that holds no life dear, that i think of how dear your life has become to me. it is when i say things such as that, or feel them or think them, that i become concerned for my own mortality. it is not you i worry for; you are too strong, too brash, and burn far too bright to be taken out by any form of disaster. i, on the other hand, am an ember—one that i feel will burn out much too quickly to ever learn the caress of the sun. 
> 
> yet, this is not entirely true, as i have had the pleasure to feel your lips on my cheek, in the darkest of night in the destroyed trench shack—had the good fortune to put my shaking hands across yours, and bring your chapped lips to mine, even if only for a short moment. 
> 
> it is then, i realized, that i am irrevocably in love with you. i would do anything to preserve your warmth—perhaps my disregard for my own mortality at this point is why i wish to preserve you as immortal. i do not believe in a god, but each night i find my hands tucked in prayer as i mouth words to the bland, artillery filled sky that plead for your survival. 
> 
> i would do anything for you. i would—as i have never felt that type of fear, never knowing if you are alive or dead after tending to the wounded. no trip to no man's land could compare. it is for this, i tell you that i love you. 
> 
> it is for this, i would live for you—as well as die. 
> 
> with all my love, 
> 
> alec


	9. letter 9: alec

may, 1915. 

from: magnus bane

to: alec lightwood

> my dearest alexander,
> 
> it is with a heavy heart that i write as you do—under the heavy curtain of suffocating night. it is just that i find myself unable to tell you, that i am being re-stationed—moved to the eastern front: to romania, they say. i do not wish for you to worry, nor do i wish to break your heart, though i fear that when you wake in the morning, me gone with nothing but this flimsy piece of paper to remember, you will be destroyed.
> 
> i could not stand it. i suppose it is selfish to tell you this way, but if i am to die i want my last memory of you to be this—your form sleeping, despite the unending madness around us.
> 
> i kissed you, before your rest tonight, in the cover of darkness—our love muffled by the noise of artillery fire. you told me you loved me, and as for me, i responded that i love you too. and i do, with all of me—with everything inside of me and all that i have.
> 
> for letters, i have written my address in brooklyn on the back of this paper. i did not wish to disclose we both live in brooklyn—not even daring to dream of a future between the two of us. yet now, i find a future with you at my side is all that i wish, and it would be silly to deprive myself of that hope.
> 
> this is too short, and far too long all at once. too long as i do not wish to say goodbye, but too short as i cannot summarize my feelings for you with mere words. 
> 
> till we meet again, in this life or the next,
> 
> magnus


	10. real life, the interlude: part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't get mad at me i'll post the next one soon ok

He had read the letter the day before—the one that put the fear of god in his chest and throat—the one where love and worry silenced him from screaming out. To scream would be to give them away, yet to do nothing would be an atrocity inflicted upon himself. So he chose to do nothing. 

On this day, he had taken his orders. He had climbed out of the trench, and manned the machine gun. He didn't shoot—didn't blink as the pain laced through his ankle. 

There was no noise. He burned like fire. 

He screamed like ash—a whisper, no one cared to hear. 

He looked to the sky, spoke slowly, and carefully—as if some higher power would lose his words beneath the far off rushing of the River Somme. 

_"Deliver me to him."_

He could only pray that someone would listen.


	11. real life, the interlude: part 2

It didn't come as a shock when the letters were handed to him—for in a way, Magnus had always known that he was the one to which Alexander would write inconsequential nothings beneath the cover of blackest night. 

Or at least—he had hoped it was so, but never longed for it to be this way. He hadn't wished for the sadness that accompanied the love slid into his palm on paper like a weight, consuming him—crushing him beneath the cover of artillery fire. 

Yet, guilt like shrapnel is what he received, the desire to scream clawing its way from diaphragm— _not my fault,_ ringing in his head.

Beneath the dark expanse of the Romanian sky, he made a vow. 

He could only pray that he would be able to keep it.


End file.
